In His Memory Palace
by Lady Saffron of the Daggers
Summary: Dr. Lecter spends an evening with himself.


This piece was inspired by Euclase's "Saturn" piece over on Deviantart, though this Hannibal is more based off of the books. Feel free to picture any version you wish!

I do not speak Lithuanian. Any of those mistakes are to be aimed at google translate. This has not been beta read. Grammatical/spelling mistakes are mine, and I apologize.

Disclaimer: Hannibal characters belong to Thomas Harris.

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The light shone on the desk, highlighting the grain as it swirled and spiraled its way from one end to the other, like writing on paper. The files that lay on it were filled with the information the Doctor had collected on his patients. Black ink stained white paper in an unintelligible blur, as the eyes gazing at it would not fixate enough to help them form the neat sentences they had been called into existence to perform.

No. Tonight the gaze was focused inward. He could bear to face his perceptive gaze on himself, though there were many displays in his memory palace that seemed to melt away from any contact, a viscous material that resembled watery flour dough. It would leave a sticky, messing feeling on the viewer's mind, until they managed to add enough history to the idea, to make it into something more tangible.

Hannibal's fingers drummed absently on his worn planner as he wandered through the baroque halls, searching for the thoughts that were not so full, due to age and innocence more than a lack of care for the memories. Tonight Hannibal was visiting with a small boy standing at a wall, holding his hands to either side of his face so his peripheral vision was blocked. The palace morphed and shifted into a well-cared for house, themed in flowers and yellows, and filled with the feeling of laughter being a regular noise. Not now, though. Now there was only the muffled feeling of focus.

The boy was as silent as the house he was in. There was no breath of wind pushing at the windows, or crack of wood from the fireplace that was lit to the right of him. There was only the boy mouthing words to himself. Saliva making wet noises as it collected in his cheeks in his haste to keep beat and count the seconds until he was free from his retched fate of waiting in the brightly lit room.

"Šimtas devyniolika, Šimtas dvidešimt! Ready or not, here I come!" the boy yelled, violently pushing himself away from the papered wall and stumbling out of his father's lightly themed office and down the hallway. Hannibal followed at a distance, recalling the event rather than remembering, as he watched the boy race around rooms, searching for someone. "Mischa, where are you?" the boy called. Even at that age his voice was a siren call. But siren's voices don't work on family, elsewise there would be few left in the world.

Hannibal's eyes turned towards the curtain as soon as he entered the pastel bedroom. The boy knew where she was. She was always in the same spot, but he pretended, for her. He always strove to be the indulgent brother for her. And to do that meant he looked under the bed, and in the closet, and behind the open door before huffing out of the room to stand in the hallway until he heard the telling giggle. Hannibal did not have to worry about the boy's act. Instead he wandered over to the bump behind the curtain, fingers brushing over chintz fabric. A soft giggle was made, and immediately the boy ran back in and threw the curtain away. "Hanni!" the girl shrieked as she was tackled gently to the ground, arms encircling her to protect her from an otherwise hard landing.

"How many times must I tell you, Mischa? It's Hannibal. Not Hanni." She was still too young to form the three syllables, but her brother would not cease striving to teach her to say it properly. Though he feared that soon it would remain an annoying nickname she called him, and he would have to put up with it.

"Hanni mane surdo! Hanni mane surdo!"

"No, no, Mischa. Mother and Father are insisting you work on your English. Found me. Hannibal found me." She continued in Lithuanian, and the boy shook his head as he rolled off from overtop her. "If you're going to say it in Lithuanian, then at least say it properly." He sat up and looked her straight in the eye. His red eyes caught her attention and she quieted, blue eyes blinking back seriously. " You are not deaf, you are found. The word you want is surado. Mane surado"

The young girl formed the word carefully a few times before giggling and shoving herself to her feet on chubby legs. "Vėl! Again!" she yelled, grabbing his hand to make him stand, and then pushed and smacked him towards the wall so she could run and hide. The boy smiled and shook his head at her exuberance before beginning his count again.

Hannibal withdrew from the memory and blinked in the dimmed light of his office. The dark wood of his office seemed to swallow any brightness that reached it. Opening his black planner, he looked at the date and allowed the smallest of smiles to grace the corner of his eyes. "Happy birthday, Mischa."

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Thank you for reading! Reviews sent off anon are replied to and appreciated!  
-Saffron


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